


All-Ronan Hooligan Gang

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Other, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9626744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: “Where did they come from?” Noah asks, voice hushed, and it’s impossible to say if his tone is full of wonder or fear. “Where do Ronans come from?”Based on a dream by telekinesiskid





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is the stupidest thing I've ever written @ my user subscribers I'm so sorry
> 
>  
> 
> [based on a dream my wife had, illustration by her](http://telekinesiskid.tumblr.com/post/156953958759/just-remembered-about-a-week-ago-i-had-a-dream)

There are two Ronans.

They are both in Ronan’s bedroom, picking through his things, kicking the empty bottles, murmuring to each other. Occasionally Chainsaw will give an uncertain squawk and one of the two will smooth down her feathers with a reassuring shoosh. Gansey stands in the doorway, short-circuiting. One notices him and nudges the other; together they take in his expression and snigger, and turn back to digging through the discarded clothes.

“Noah,” Gansey says, whispering even though they’ve already seen him, whispering because he is very afraid reality might crack if he speaks any louder. “Noah, are you seeing this?”

Noah is at his shoulder, cold fingers wrapped in a death grip around his upper arm. “Where did they come from?” he asks, voice also hushed, and it’s impossible to say if his tone is full of wonder or fear. “Where do Ronans come from?”

“I don’t know,” Gansey whispers back. He thinks he might be shaking. He tries to think if he’s slept recently and yes, he has, and he also hasn’t consumed anything with psychotropic properties that he’s aware of. He pinches himself, hard, and then he has a sore arm and there are still two Ronans in front of him.

“Oh, hey,” a terrifyingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. There is the sound of heavy boots crossing the floor, and then someone slaps him on the shoulder in greeting.

Gansey doesn’t want to look.

 

There are three Ronans.

The third Ronan is wearing a leather jacket and a relaxed smile that makes him a little less recognisable, but Gansey thinks he knows this one: Ronan Prime. He’s got a supermarket bag holding nothing but chips in one hand, and a case of beer in the other. “Don’t mind us,” he says, squeezing past Gansey and into his room.

“Ronan,” Gansey tries to say, but he can’t manage more than ‘ _Rrr_ ,’ before higher reasoning sputters out again. The door to Ronan’s bedroom is shut in his face; Noah’s fingers dig a little deeper into his arm. “Noah,” Gansey says, unable to tear his eyes away from the wood grain. “What.”

There is nothing but reverent awe in Noah’s voice as he whispers, “Do you think there’ll be more?”

It takes until the next day to get Adam over, because he had to work one job and then the other, and because despite Gansey’s most earnest, incoherent pleas, Adam wouldn’t believe him over the phone. Adam doesn’t believe him on the ride over, either, having to press over the noise of the Pig, “What do you _mean_ more than one of him?”

If Gansey diverts too much reasoning into trying to count Lynches, then he will crash the car. “Three of them,” he says again, which is about all he’s actually managed to say to Adam. “There are _three_.”

 

There are more than three.

Adam Parrish steps into Monmouth Manufacturing to see at least four Ronans clustered around the pool table, laughing and trash talking each other as they take turns to shoot. Noah is perched on top of the couch, watching-wide eyed and rapt as a Ronan misses an easy shot and another Ronan jeers, prodding him out of the way with a cue.

After a short, quiet second, Gansey whispers, “There were only three.”

Adam is quiet for longer. Adam is the kind of quiet where Gansey is not sure if he is ever going to speak again. A fifth Ronan strolls out of the kitchen, gnawing at a stick of beef jerky. There is nothing left in the world to say.

The only Ronan in a leather jacket sees them shell-shocked by the doorway, and gives a short nod. Gansey leans in to Adam and confides, “I think that one’s the leader.”

 

There are five Ronans.

It takes some getting used to, but as the pool game continues and no unseen horde of Ronans pours out of the walls, slowly, slowly, it becomes something that Adam and Gansey can quantify. They take the couch as Noah is absorbed into the mob, every grinning, fierce Lynch snickering when he fumbles the cue.

“What do you even call a group like this?” Gansey muses aloud. “A slouch of Ronans? A squabble of Ronans?”

“Do you really think that’s the important part?” Adam asks.

“A murder of Ronans,” Gansey proposes.

At the pool table, the game is progressing; Noah is held aloft on the shoulders of two Lynches, looking both excited and woozy. Two of the others are arguing over whose turn it is; the fifth is snapping at the other two to hurry up with it.

“This is chaos,” Adam murmurs. “What are we going to _do_ with them?”

Gansey worries his lower lip as he looks over the group. “Isn’t that up to Ronan?”

“ _Which_ Ronan?”

Monmouth’s door opens, and Gansey’s head snaps around, wide eyes scanning in case of further Ronan reinforcements from outside. Instead, Blue Sargent’s bag falls from her hand, jaw dropping open, as Noah waves to her from atop his Ronan throne. “What,” she chokes out, “The actual _fuck?_ ”

 

There are five Ronans and one Blue.

Gansey would very much like to lie down and sleep for a good twelve hours, because the sole feeling left in his body is reminiscent of the time he pulled two all-nighters in a row. But there’s a Ronan sitting on his bed, drinking a beer, so in lieu of sleep he gathers up Blue and Adam and his best guess at the Alpha Ronan in a corner of the kitchen, away from the rest.

“Ronan,” Blue starts, having recovered impressively quickly, “What could you possibly want to do with _four copies_ of yourself?”

Adam and Gansey both look like they have an answer to that, which neither of them say aloud. Original Ronan shrugs, nonchalant. “Look, I just kept dreaming them up, right? Only I _saved_ these ones. And they’re all people, _Adam_ , so I’m treating them like people. But don’t worry, we’re going to clear out soon.”

“Where will you go?” Blue asks, too much romance to her voice.

“Probably travel around a bit, have a good time, see where we end up.”

“You’re just going to surreptitiously travel around with four copies of yourself?” Adam asks in some laughable attempt to bring logic to the situation.

Official Ronan just looks Adam dead in the eye, and says, “Yes.” Clearly, he does not have time to waste on such petty anti-Ronan judgement, and Adam’s the one to look away first, though the curl to his mouth derided all this multi-Ronan nonsense.

 

There are soon to be no Ronans, and Gansey watches sadly as the BMW is loaded with mostly spirits and snack foods. “Send me letters,” he says, as the Ronans pile into the backseat. Adam and Noah hang a little further back, Noah mournful, Adam unreadable.

Premier Ronan and Gansey clap each other on the shoulders a couple of times, masculine and tragic, and then Ronan turns to his car and Gansey falls back in with the others to watch them depart.

“We could have kept _one_ ,” Adam says, pre-emptively defensive. “I wouldn’t have minded _one_. Or two.”

Gansey agrees, but can’t say it out loud, watching four Lynches argue over shotgun. A single tear rolls down his cheek.  

“Wait,” Blue gasps, rushing for the car just as the doors slam shut, “Ronans, wait! Take me with you!”

Gansey reaches for her, but misses. She crashes into the passenger side and has a very quick argument with the Paragon Ronan through the open window; Gansey can only catch the words, ‘travel’ and ‘want’ and ‘partywagon’. The Lynch in the passenger seat is ejected and crammed into the backseat with the rest, and Gansey can only watch on helplessly as Blue settles in shotgun in the Lynchmobile.

 

Zero Ronans; negative one Blues.

The BMW pulls away, kicking up gravel with its tyres as a single shaved head pops up from the sunroof. Noah raises a hand in salute; Adam buries his head in his hands.

“Godspeed,” whispers Gansey.

**Author's Note:**

> come face me on [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/) if you think you can still look me in the eye


End file.
